Thief Hunter
by Lerolain
Summary: Times are hard for the City's most notorious thief, and things always get worse before they get better.
1. Bad Fortune

Disclaimer (for the whole story): Garrett is owned by some rich person somewhere. I just borrow him.

XXX

**Change of Fortune.**

A thief has to eat. Sometimes it's necessary to steal food from a shop that's closed for the night. I tell myself this, but it doesn't numb the sting. My pride is hurt that once again I have come to this. Robbing bakeries instead of bank vaults makes a thief feel small.

But I've been down before and climbed back up. The feel of food in your belly works wonders for your spirit.

I sit on a hard wooden chair in the shop, bread and cheese in hand, and listen to the owner snore upstairs. I take stock of my situation.

It's been two months since I lost the Star Stone. I managed one good job after that, but all my money disappeared in various taverns. Two days ago, the landlord banged on my door and told me to pay up or I was out.

I had no money. He evicted me without further notice. As a parting shot I broke in that night and emptied his deposit box. It wasn't much, but it was enough to pay the bond on a single room in the Docks. I won't be there long. I can feel my fortunes changing again. I am sure this run of bad luck is behind me.

I stand, feeling newly invigorated. I put the last of some dry ham and rather foul cheese in my pouch for later, wrapped in oiled cloth. I don't have as much equipment as I would like: my blackjack, two water arrows, a single broadhead, and flashbomb. And my sword, though that is not much comfort. This does not alter my determination.

I open the door and creep out, flat against the wall. The street is empty both ways. I have taken only ten paces when I hear the shout of a Watchman behind me.

I chance a look behind me and see three of them, all running my way. I don't know how they've seen me but that isn't important now. I run. I know these streets well. I know how I can escape. Ido nothide, but concentrate on going as fast as I can.

The alley I'm looking for comes up quickly. The guards behind me are gaining and they are shouting for reinforcements. More shouts answer them. At the end of this dark alley there's an ornately carved stone doorway. It has enough handholds for a nimble thief like me to use it as a ladder. I launch myself at it and catch hold half way up. I hear the guards enter the alley.

My fingers close on the gutter and I pull up. I straighten my arms and swing my legs up.

A bowstring twangs behind me and time slows. The arrow hits my lower back and buries itself deep. The shock and the pain make my muscles spasm and I lose my grip. I fall and I know no more.


	2. A New Low

I'm lying on my front. My hood has been pulled back and stray hairs tickle my cheek.My other cheek is pressed into prickly straw. My back aches. As I try to move hot pain floods the muscles. I lie straight and still, sweat beading on my brow, and wait for the pain to pass.

The room smells of damp. Water drips rhythmically somewhere out of sight. Carefully, I reach one hand round to investigate the arrow wound on my back. It has been bandaged, but not well. Any hopes I had of waking up to a friendly face are fading with the last traces of unconsciousness.

I sit up gingerly and look around, gritting my teeth against the pain. I am in a cell. One wall is taken up with metal bars, floor to ceiling. The rest are stone, soiled with damp and moss. On the wall outside my cell is a piece of paper. Most of the writing is too small to read from here but I can clearly make out the Watch crest.

Damn.

A torch blazes beside the sign. Its glare covers the whole room, leaving no dark corners to hide in. My heart beats faster. I have to escape.

Now that my eyes have adjusted to the light I can see to inspect the bandage. It is stained with dried blood and the grime of the dirty room. The skin around the wound feels hot, and as my fingers probe further I can feel the arrowhead still there, broken off close to the skin. I have to get out of here, get to a healer. The Watch aren't interested in keeping me alive, but I am.

A quick check of my pockets reveals that all my equipment is missing. They've been thorough. Almost everything is gone. A fine gold chain, caught in the seam of my pocket, catches on a broken fingernail. I ignore it. Loot won't help me out of here.

I take off my right boot and reach inside. I pull out the lining, tearing the stitching. Inside, between the inner and outer soles, are two tiny lockpicks. I pull my boot back on. The torn lining bunches uncomfortably under my foot.

I move to the door and crane my neck, looking both ways. There is no guard outside. They put entirely too much trust in their iron bars. It does not take me long to pick the lock. The door is well oiled and swings open without a sound.

I'm free but I am not at my best. I have no money, no equipment and an arrow wound that hurts more with every step… Most importantly I have no money to pay for a healer. Perhaps it's the madness of fever setting in already but a little voice tells me there's bound to be plenty of cash lying around here. I can probably steal enough to buy more equipment, get myself patched up, maybe enough to get my old place back, or one just as good.

As soon as I turn the corner my resolve weakens. I'm looking down a long corridor, lined with cells. From the size of this place I know I'm in one of the large Watchhouses – Lean Street, or maybe High Hill. I'm not too familiar with Watchhouses. I don't go in them very often, after all.

There's a stairway halfway along the corridor and I creep toward it. The cells are about half full of the City's scum. They stare at me as I pass. There is no friendly darkness to hide me from their gazes.

Three cells along one of the prisoners, quicker witted that the rest, calls out. 'Help me out of here, mate. I'll make it worth your while.'

I make a split second decision. If I leave him he'll shout and curse me, and the commotion will attract guards. But if I free him he will run upstairs, straight into the first guard he sees. He does not have the look of a man who can keep quiet, either way.

I keep walking. If I free one I have to free them all, and the last thing I want is a horde of escaped criminals running around.

He starts to shout behind me. The noise, echoing through the corridor, is incredibly loud, and it sets the others off too. I break into a run. I have to get off this level and hide before the guards appear.

I take the stairs three at a time. There's a reception desk at the top in a square room. A guard sits behind it, with another in front talking to him. I freeze just in time and press myself against the wall. Fortunately the room is lit only by two candles on the desk, and my black clothes blend into the darkness. Unless one of them walks into me they will not find me.

'Damn prisoners,' says the guard behind the desk. 'I suppose I should go see what's got into them.'

'I'm glad my shift is over,' says his companion. 'I don't envy you the care of that lot tonight. Do you know who we've got down there?'

'Peg Leg Moll?' The standing guard shakes his head no. 'Surprise me.'

'Only the self styled Master Thief himself. Garrett.'

'No!' The guard sounds suitably impressed. Self styled? I resent that.

'Yes. So just you keep a lookout, because if he escapes on your watch the Duty Officer will have your balls on toast.' The standing guard throws a sloppy salute and leaves the room, leaving his friend checking the logbook before him as if he doesn't believe what he's heard.

The noise from below hasn't slackened, and my disbelieving friend scowls at the cells. 'Shut it, you taffers!' he shouts, but if they hear him, they ignore him.

This really annoys him. A small vein starts to throb in his temple. He stands, knocking his chair against the wall. 'Right!' he mutters.

He strides toward the stairs, his back to me. This is too good an opportunity to pass up. I take one of the candlesticks from his desk, pinch out the flame and pad quietly after him. I hit him with all the strength I can muster and he crumples. The thought of picking him up and trying to hide his body causes my back to complain, so I leave him where he is. I hope he stays undiscovered for long enough for me to make my escape.

On my way back I peer into the logbook by the light of the remaining candle. I can see my name on the top of the page. Beside my name I write neatly 'Escaped'. I chuckle softly, knowing the Duty Officer won't see the funny side.

I open the door and put my mechanical eye to the gap. Dancing lights are swimming in my good eye and I don't trust myself not to pass out if I rely on it. At least my mechanical eye will not let me down. Beyond the door I can see the main reception room. There are desks where officers can sit and hear grievances, and places for the public to wait in line. It is deserted, unmanned at night. Large doors to my right must lead to the street, but I'm not ready to leave just yet. Behind the desks, cordoned off from the public by silk ropes attached to brass stands, is another door. It bears a sign saying 'No Public Beyond This Point'. I crouch down to move through the darkness.

Pain in my back strikes me, rushing through my muscles like icy water. I fall onto my hands and knees, biting my lip until I taste blood, trying not to cry out. I know I must get help but I will not leave the things they have taken from me. I struggle to calm my breathing, to conquer the pain. It fades, but as I stand it twinges again, a warning that I can only push my body so far.

I open the door. A single torch has been left burning on the wall beside me. In the golden light I can make out a long room, with desks arranged in neat rows on each side. A spiral staircase leads to a balcony that runs around the room. In the half light I can see doors up there. There are skylights in the roof above. Pale moonlight streams through them in white shafts.

It is deserted. I move to the first desk and rifle through the papers carelessly left out. It is the details of a petty theft, though not one of mine. The thief has been caught and the evidence found with him is in the Strongroom, awaiting presentation in his trial. It sounds like it would be profitable to pay this Strongroom a visit. Not only could it be packed with loot for the taking, my own equipment could be there.

I walk a circuit of the room, examining each desk. I lift a few coins, a ring, a small gold statue. And on the last desk I come to I find a single piece of paper.

_Notice to All Watchmen_

_Due to a recent spate of thefts from the Strongroom the locks have been changed. The craftsman assures me that these locks are unpickable. Two keys are now needed to open the door. These will be in the care of the Duty Officers. Watchmen are urged to look out for any suspicious behaviour and report it immediately._

_Commander Highton_

I have never yet come across a lock that was unpickable. But the word is a challenge that I have to rise to. Of course, it would be far easier if I could find the keys and replace them once I've got what I want.

I walk up the spiral staircase, my footsteps too loud on the metal steps. When I reach the top I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Ordinarily this would be an easy job. The place is almost deserted and dark. But I know that if I am seen I will not be able to make a quick getaway, and that makes me nervous. But I do not let my tension affect my concentration.

There are three offices along the corridor. The closest two have signs saying 'Duty Officer' and the third has a coat of arms. That will be Commander Highton's office, then. He comes from a noble but poor family, and he makes sure everyone knows about his noble blood and not his empty coffers.

The first door is unlocked and I let myself in. The room is bare. Only a desk, a chair and a wooden chest furnish it. I help myself to a pouch of silver left in the chest, and a gold tobacco case on the desk. The second room is much the same, with only a few small pickings. I am disappointed, but try the third door anyway.

This one is locked. I set to work with my small lockpicks. They are awkward, having short handles, and it takes me longer than it would ordinarily.

As the middle ring clicks open, I hear voices below me and footsteps on the stairway. I have nowhere to hide. Although I could run back to the other offices there are no hiding places in there. My only chance is to open this door and pray there is a place I can conceal myself.

I click the final wheel as a head tops the balcony. From the cavalier hat and large feather I know this is Commander Highton in all his noble glory. I slip through the door.

My luck has not totally deserted me. This room contains several large pieces of ornate wooden furniture, one of which is a large wardrobe. I close the door behind me as I climb in among the heavy coats and capes. It isn't wise to shut yourself in a wardrobe, but it's better than leaving the door open for someone to wonder about.

The door to the office opens and two people walk in. Their footsteps are quite different, one a heavy confident stride and one shuffling along, occasionally jogging a step to catch up. I hear a sigh and a creak as someone sits down, and the clink of a bottle on glasses.

'Sir, the treasurer will not allow this expense,' says a nervous little voice.

'Stuff him, old chap.' This haughty tone must be the Commander. We've never had the pleasure of meeting but I note his voice for later. 'The cost must be weighed against the embarrassment when this news gets out.' There is a glug and the clink of glass on glass again.

'But the fee is astronomical!'

'It will be worth it. That little rat has caused us much trouble. Think of the widows' payments, the injuries, the loss of face.'

'To be fair, sir, he's never actually killed one of our men.'

The Commander carries on as if his lackey had not spoken. 'It's time to call in the real professionals. I haven't got men who are capable of this kind of work. To catch the thief we need someone who knows his ways, who knows his weaknesses. Take this to the house with the blue door on Silver Way.' There is the unmistakable noise of coins rattling. 'Ask for Ravine. Tell whoever answers I want a word, or else.'

'With respect, sir, I don't know if threats are the way to convince h-'

'Then do what ever it takes, man! I want a bounty hunter and I want the best. There's more where that silver came from. Make sure you pass that on. And the deal is dead or alive. Hanging Garrett in my precinct would be a master stroke for my career, but I'm prepared to take what I can get.'

'Yes sir.' The shuffler leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. I hear more and more drink being poured and then, after what seems an interminable age, snores.

I give him a minute to go deeper into sleep and I open the door. I know it's risky, but sneaking out in front of the captain of the guard is preferable to waiting for this bounty hunter to show up.

I creep noiselessly across the thick carpet and edge the door open just enough squeeze through. The room below is still deserted and I move perhaps quicker than is wise in my haste to leave. I feel cowardly but I know that if I take on a bounty hunter in my weakened state I will lose.

The Strongroom will have to wait.


	3. Recovering

I wake to the sound of voices, hushed, trying not to disturb me. My eyelids flicker open but I close them and lie still, listening.

'...sure this potion of yours will work?' I recognise Isganna's voice. Last night comes into sharp focus suddenly. I remember staggering through the streets, losing blood and trying to find refuge. I knew I could not make the long trip back to the Docks, and so I made for the nearest safe place.

'Of course, madam, of course. Potions such as these come at a high premium, which nobody would pay for anything less than top quality. No, I assure you this is the real thing. All the way from Talenazzar.' This voice is that of an elderly man. He has a cultured voice – no dockside quack, then.

'Thank you, Doctor. I apologise for doubting you, but I'm sure you understand one can't be too careful these days. I also apologise for calling you at such an unsociable hour, but I'm afraid my black sheep of a brother keeps strange hours. I dread to think what mess he has got himself into this time.'

'Sadly, we can't choose our family,' agrees the doctor. 'Still, he should be on his feet and out of your hands again in no time.'

The door opens and closes and I hear their voices trail away down the stairs. The bell on the shop door rings, and Isganna comes back alone. As she comes into the room I open my eyes and try to sit up. The room hazes and I fall back, eyes shut. I can only think there must be some damage to my mechanical eye and my heart races. I need that eye.

'What's wrong with my eye?' I say. I can hear the panic in my voice and hate it but cannot control it, and I'm breathing faster and my heart beats painfully quickly.

'Nothing,' she replies calmly. She moves closer and I feel her tug at something behind my head. Pressure on my cheek that I hadn't registered before is released. I open my eyes slowly, and let out a sigh of relief. Everything looks normal again.

'I couldn't have the doctor recognising you, so I took the liberty of putting this on you.' She holds up a triangle of black cloth on leather strings. 'It's an eyepatch. I reasoned there are many men in the City with these, but precious few with reflective green eyes. Besides, it makes you look rakish, which fitted your role as my drunkard brother rather well.'

I take it from her, hold it up to the light. The material is gauzy, so that I can just about see through it.

'I expect it will take some getting used to,' she says.

'Thank you,' I say.

'Oh, that's nothing,' she says, waving a hand dismissively. 'The doctor's bill on the other hand... well, we can sort that out later. I had to purchase a rather expensive potion for you.'

'I'm somewhat short of funds at the moment,' I say grimly. Perry tells me that many women can be persuaded to forget debts through flattery and compliments, though I've never mastered the art, but like me Isganna prefers cold hard cash. 'Once I'm healed I'll pay you back. How many weeks will I be out of action?'

'That's the beauty of the doctor's huge bill.' She lifts a phial of purple fluid from the bedside table and holds it up. It is two thirds full. 'A measure of this for the next two mornings, and you should be ready by Furtivus Day.'

I gape. That's just four days away.

'I suppose you'll want to stay here until then.' She smirks. 'The longer I have to feed you for, the more it will cost you in the long run.'

I try to sit up again and my back protests. 'Perhaps for tonight,' I concede.

XXX

Furtivus Day dawns and I am still at Isganna's house. We see very little of each other. She spends the days working in her shop or out visiting her clients, and I spend them asleep, not wanting to lose my nocturnal habits. When I wake in the evening she passes my door but doesn't linger for long. I think in some part of her heart she fears me, but I don't know why. Perhaps it is rooted in the mysterious past that she will not tell me about.

That evening I announce I am ready to leave. I tell her I'll be back with her money in the next day or so. She leaves the room and comes back a few minutes later with a bundle.

She hands it to me. 'Think of it as protection for my investment.'

Curious, I unwrap the cloth. It smells of age and mothballs, as though it has been in the back of a cupboard for a long time.

It contains a blackjack, a small dagger and two long handled picks. I look up in surprise.

'You won't get very far without the tools of the trade.' She shrugs and looks away. 'And don't ask me where they came from. I won't tell.'

I don't. They're good tools, though old. The leather handle of the dagger, once soft, has cracked and hardened with age. Good job I won't be needing it much.

'You know,' she smiles mischievously. 'There's an old saying among thieves. A thief's dagger is like his heart – he keeps it hidden away because when he takes it out someone gets killed. But don't get any ideas.'

'You're not a thief, so you don't count,' I say absently. My mind's eye is showing me a rain-swept cobbled street, and a woman lying with my dagger buried in her neck. I know how true that saying can be. I blink the pictures away.

'Are you alright?' She asks, concerned. 'You can stay another night, if you're not recovered.'

'I'm fine,' I say gruffly and stand.

I open the shutters and look out over the rooftops. The Thieves' Highway, they call it. Out in the distance I can see the Watch flag flying.

Tonight is just about to get interesting.

XXX

Writer's block: 0, Bex: 1.

Hopefully more should follow. I've got the plot all written up, just need to find some time to write it.

There'll be some action in the next section, I promise!

By the way, any cryptic references towards the end of this chapter refer to The Star Stone, another of my Thief fics. You don't have to have read that to understand what's coming up in this one, but it contains a metaphor that I'm really proud of but which wasn't obvious enough. If you read it again, keeping Isganna's thief saying in mind, all should become clear.


	4. Recovering Stolen Property

The streets are quiet and the shadows long and dark. Even though my body isn't responding as well as it should, a combination of the recently healed wound and four days of inactivity, it's no trouble to avoid the few guards that cross my path. I don't feel well enough to outrun them if they spot me, but that shouldn't be a problem for the Master Thief. With what Isganna gave me and the little I had left, I have almost no equipment, but it's enough for the task at hand if I am careful.

Two guards stand outside the main entrance, the door I left by last time. Bright torches line the steps all the way up to the entrance, ruling it out as a possible way in. I duck into an alley alongside the Watchhouse.

A high wall runs around the building, and I guess that it contains a courtyard. I can smell cooking, and the unmistakeable stink of stables. Somewhere there will be gates to allow horses and servants to come and go unseen by the public.

I follow the wall around and come to a gatehouse. Two lookout towers frame the gate and there are guards moving above. This part of the building is much older than the front. The gatehouse has the look of an ancient fort, while the front of the building is a more elaborate modern design. I stick close to the wall to keep in shadow and, as I do, I notice that the gaps between the stones where the mortar has fallen away are wide enough to use as handholds.

It takes me nearly two minutes to scale the wall, and by the end my fingers and toes ache with the effort of supporting my weight. I move deliberately slowly, knowing that sudden movements draw the eye.

At the top I drop lightly over the buttress and crouch. The guards on the wall top are gathered near the lookout tower closest to me. I creep as close as the darkness will allow, thinking to listen in on their conversation and perhaps learn something that mat be useful to me, but they are involved in a game of chance and I learn nothing. I turn my attention to the building across the courtyard and plan my route.

Two doors open from the main building onto the courtyard. One is the kitchen door, thrown open to let in the cool night air, and the other is heavily guarded. But crossing the courtyard is too risky, and once I have seen there is no easy way in I don't spare it another glance. My eye follows the wall along to where it meets the building, where a single guard leans sleepily against the buttress. Beyond him is a small door, set in a dark alcove in the wall.

I pass within touching distance of him, but he does not turn or become aware of me. He watches the street below, but his gaze is unfocussed, not concentrating on his job. I briefly consider knocking him out, but if his absence is noted the alarm may be raised.

The door is slightly ajar, and I can only see darkness beyond. I open it slowly. The hinges let out a creak like wailing banshee. The guard at the wall looks up sharply.

I run through, leaving the door open. I find myself at the corner of a corridor that runs ahead of me and off to the left, and dart left. I flatten myself against the wall.

The guard looks through the door. 'Rill?' he shouts. 'Was that you? You know I don't think it's funny.' He pauses, waiting. Only silence answers. 'Just the wind, I suppose.' I hear the door creak again and it closes with a soft thud. I let out my breath, relieved.

I move down the corridor, keeping my tread light on the wooden floor. There are two torches further down, casting twin circles of light. They mark the top of a wide staircase leading to the floor below. I'm not sure where the Strongroom entrance is, but I know my best chance of finding it is to be methodical. I carry on past the stairway.

Beyond the stairs there are several doors, evenly spaced. I open the door of the first, slowly and carefully in case there is someone in the room beyond and wary of more noisy hinges. It is a small office, with only a desk and chair and cupboard. I look through the desk drawers and cupboard, but there's nothing of value.

The next room is similar, and the next. I almost don't open the final door, expecting to find only more of the same, but I know if I don't I'll miss something valuable.

This office is as sparse as the others. I shrug. Sometimes these gambles pay off, and sometimes they don't. But as I turn to close the door behind me, I realise my luck has held after all.

On the back of the door is a framed chart, a floor plan of the Watchhouse. I prise the back off with the tip of Isganna's dagger and take out the map. There's always a map somewhere, if you look hard enough.

A quick study of the map shows that the Strongroom entrance is on the lower floor. But I have not forgotten the memo I read on my last visit here. Two keys are required to open the door.

I peer out into the corridor again. It is still empty. I head for the staircase. I reason that the Duty Officers responsible for the keys will probably have offices on the ground floor. They are not marked on the map.

I can hear guards moving in the hall below. From the sharp sounds of their footsteps the floor is tiled and I frown. Tiled floors are a thief's worst enemy when he has no moss arrows. A thief, that is, who can't improvise.

The torches cast too much light for me to risk moving into the stairway. Instinctively I reach for my quiver to take out a water arrow, but of course it's not there.

Time to improvise. I take the torch out of its bracket and thrust it against the wall twice. I stamp out the fallen embers before the carpet catches fire and replace the dead torch carefully. I brush the soot from my boot and creep down the stairs.

The hallway is long and narrow with six guards in pairs, one at this end, one in the middle and one at the far end. It is dark in here, with no windows to let in the moonlight, and only four torches blazing. I consult my stolen chart, which says I need the door at the far end. The tiled floor stretches out before me, seemingly endless. I can see a path that should keep me totally invisible, but how to remain silent?

I tug off my boots. They're soft soled, of course, but still too noisy on tiles. Carefully I place a woollen-socked foot on the tiles. They're cold, but I can move noiselessly now. I creep down the hallway.

Halfway down I see a movement out of the corner of my mechanical eye. I turn slowly, but there is only an alcove with a suit of armour there. I can't afford to get distracted! If I start imagining all the things that could be in those shadows I'll never get to the Strongroom.

I walk on, and slip through the doors. I weave my way through two more long corridors and chance upon the Duty Officers' rooms. With the large polished brass plaque mounted upon their doors they are unmissable.

The first door is locked, but the lock is a simple one and easy enough to pick. I close it quietly. I've seen far fewer Watchmen than I expected tonight, but I don't want one to come walking past while I'm at work.

The key hangs on a fine gold chain on a hook behind the desk. I hide it in my belt pouch and take a few coins from the desk drawer.

As I leave the room a door closes sharply down the corridor, back the way I came. I whip my head round sharply, but the corridor is empty. Perhaps it was the wind, but I feel no draught. With a cautious glance behind I begin picking the next lock.

This second office is similar to the first and I get the second key. I have left the door ajar this time and open it enough to peer out into the corridor without being seen. The door that slammed before is now open.

I wait for an age in silence. A bead of sweat trickles down my cheek though the damp stone building chills the air. Not a sound or movement comes from the hall.

I wait for long minutes and finally feel foolish. Either it was the wind or it was a watchman who opened the door while I was in the first office and has now left it open. I consult my stolen map and head off in the direction of the Strongroom.

A wooden-floored rectangular hallway marks the entrance to the Strongroom. Two elaborate chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Stalactites of wax hang from them. The light they cast is dim, but peering up into the gloom I notice that only a quarter of the candles are actually lit. The Strongroom door takes up most of the far wall. It is wooden, but I can see the panels that allow access to the mechanisms that control it.

I have my hand on the grip of the blackjack, ready for anything, but there is nobody in the room. A small table beside the large door holds cards dealt in a game of chance, and a steaming drink, but whoever was here a short time ago has gone. This seems like a stroke of luck but something about it sticks in my throat. There are far too few guards here.

I open first one lock, then the other. The door swings open without a sound on well oiled hinges. I creep into the gloom beyond, cautious. Perhaps the guards are in here.

But the Strongroom is deserted and dark as well. There is only an eight-branched candlestick flickering on a table in the centre of the room. Even in the half-light, I can recognise my own equipment laid out there.

Each piece has been labelled and I tear the small bits of paper away as I hastily tool myself up again. I keep glancing behind me at the door, sure that at any moment the Watch will arrive. This has been so easy, surely it must be a trap. But even knowing I'm in grave danger, I can't leave without what I came here for.

Locked cupboards line the walls, and I choose four at random to loot. Once my bag is full and I feel rich enough I creep back to the door.

Still nobody. Perhaps the trap is not sprung yet and there is still time to leave.

I take care not to be seen on the way back but still move quickly. Strange, but the guards that lined the tiled hall have gone and I don't see a soul until I reach the wall. Even then, the only guards are those playing their game by the gatehouse towers. They seem tense, speaking too loudly. I'm most relieved when my feet touch the cobbled street again. Though there may or may not have been a trap set for me, at least I have escaped.

I spare the high wall one last glance and as I do I see a figure on the wall, silhouetted against a silvery cloud. Dark hair whips around its shoulder in a gust of wind. It sees me looking back and disappears behind the crenellations. Without waiting to see who or what it is I run through the streets. I use every trick I know to avoid pursuit, just in case.

It takes me three hours to get back to Isganna's shop. My muscles are sore, tired after a long night's exercise after so much inactivity. But as I creep through the window I feel a sense of professional pride. I stole from the Watch's Strongroom. Not many thieves can say that.

A single candle lights the room. Isganna sits in her chair by the dead fire. She looks exhausted, as though she has been running all night, rather than me. She turns her pale face with shadowed eyes towards me.

'The Watch put out a description of your injuries,' she says. There's an edge to her voice but it's not fear. 'I had a visitor while you were gone. Doctor Isen came back. He tried to blackmail me. He said if I didn't tell him where you were he would ruin my business.'

I nod. 'So you said...?'

She scowls angrily at me. 'I didn't tell him you'd be coming back. Or that when you did I would offer you a chance to pay off your debt with no money changing hands.'

I raise a brow. 'No money?' I don't want to part with any of my haul, but a debt is a debt.

'I have a job for you. If you do it I'll forget the money you owe me.'

'What is it?' I ask, though I already know.

'Murder.'


End file.
